Swim Until You Can't See Land
by Copycat
Summary: So, the idea of declarations of love and continuing conversations started in ambulances is a nice one, but let's be realistic for a moment, because there's no way it's going to be that simple... Sam-centric take on what happens after the shooting in 4x13.
1. Chapter 1

TITLE: Swim Until You Can't See Land  
AUTHOR: Copycat  
RATING: PG-13 for adult themes and language  
CLASSIFICATION: Angst, Romance, Sam/Andy, Nick/Andy, Sam/Marlo  
SPOILERS: Through 4x13

SUMMARY: So, the idea of declarations of love and continuing conversations started in ambulances is a nice one, but let's be realistic for a moment, because there's no way it's going to be that simple... Sam-centric take on what happens after the shooting in 4x13.

My first multi-chapter fic for Rookie Blue. I don't have a great record with the multi-chapters so I'm a little nervous. Therefore I will first go on forever about things you probably don't care about, but which seem important to me:

I feel a little bad for how Nick is portrayed in this story, at least in the beginning. Just remember that it's all from Sam's perspective and his judgment may be clouded by how they're both in love with the same woman and all that.

I don't know a whole lot about bipolar disorder, and I don't want to suggest that the stigma surrounding it is in any way justified, but Marlo did something wrong, and she did it _because_ she's bipolar and there's no way of ignoring that. Blame the professional writers for that, I'm just trying to bring what they started to some sort of conclusion while we wait for them to do it properly. And hopefully better...

Also, IDK, I pretended the shooting happened on a Sunday. Did they say what day it is?

* * *

If picturing this moment beforehand had been an option, this is not what he would've imagined. If he had somehow been able too see himself waking up in this bed before it happened, it would not have looked like this.

Of all the scenarios that might have entered his mind, this never would have come close. And he wouldn't have wanted it to.

Given the choice, he might have decided to stay asleep for another couple of hours.

That way maybe Nick Collins' face wouldn't have been the first one he saw. His, "You're awake," wouldn't have been the first words he heard, spoken matter-of-factly, redundantly.

Sam wonders why he is even there, but there is only one answer he can think of, and he doesn't want "Where's McNally?" to be the first words _he_ speaks. Maybe mostly because he doesn't want Collins to be the one who answers him.

"What are you doing here?" he asks instead. He hopes it doesn't sound as accusatory as it feels to him.

"We've all been taking it in turn, sitting with you," Collins replies, which is not what Sam is expecting.

Except maybe it makes sense - his timing was always terrible, so it goes to figure that he would wake up on Collins' watch.

"I should get the doctor," Nick says, getting to his feet. Sam notices the creases in his t-shirt and, when he moves in the light, his two-day stubble.

"What day is it?" Sam asks.

Nick turns in the doorway. "Tuesday. It's been two days." He flags down a nurse who in turn magics a doctor out of thin air seconds later and Sam's vitals are thoroughly checked, rechecked and deemed "very good, excellent in fact" before the doctor vanishes again and the nurse is left, looking somewhat awkwardly from Sam to Nick, clearly unsure what their relationship is, and mumbling something about changing a catheter.

Nick makes a tactful retreat but returns minutes later, and Sam assumes he has been waiting in the hallway for the nurse to finish.

"I called the station, let them know you're awake," he says, sitting back down in what looks like an extremely uncomfortable plastic chair.

Sam just nods against his pillow.

"You should probably expect lots of visitors tonight," Nick goes on. He looks like he's settling in for the long haul, like he's never planning on leaving. Is he under orders to stand guard or something?

"So everyone's back at work?" Sam doesn't know why, but he feels compelled to keep Collins talking. Maybe it's to give a reason for his continued presence, or maybe it's just so he can control the conversation himself.

"Yes," Collins says and then shrugs slightly and adds, "Well, Shaw is on sick leave, Price is still in the ICU and, uh, Cruz, Andy and I are suspended."

It doesn't escape Sam's notice that Andy is the only one to get a first name mention. "Why the hell are YOU suspended?"

Nick shrugs again, his face unreadable. "I knew, I didn't tell anyone."

"She shouldn't have told you," Sam says, feeling somehow vindicated for his anger about that, even if that wasn't really why he was angry about it.

"I'm glad she told me," Collins insists, disgustingly sincere. "She needed to talk, I'm glad I could be there to listen." The emphasis on the second 'I' is so slight Sam wonders if maybe he's imagining it.

"At the expense of your career?" he challenges him.

Collins waves him off. "It's not going to come to that, but even if it does, I did what I thought was right, I'll live with the consequences."

Sam is NOT imagining the way Collins sits up a little straighter, and while there's a unhealthy amount of military BS to the way he says the words, their essence is too close to Sam's own creed for him to be able to really resent them. "Well, good for you," he says, looking at the door to the hospital room, and if Collins hears the sarcasm in his voice he doesn't let on. He merely leans back in his seat, crossing his arms.

Sam is thirsty, but he doesn't want to _ask_ Collins to get him something to drink and he's wondering how long it'll be before another nurse has a reason to come and see him, or when Collins is going to be replaced by someone else from 15. Anyone else, really.

He knows it's unfair, of course, and he has really, really tried to like Nick Collins, but in spite of everything he knows is right he has gone from relative indifference through mild curiosity to complete loathing, his feelings a function of Andy's, his dislike growing exponentially with her interest.

He chuckles slightly to himself. If his grade 10 Maths teacher had known that within ten minutes of waking up after taking a bullet to the stomach he was thinking about exponential functions, the poor man probably would have keeled over from the shock of it.

"Is everything okay?" Collins asks, clearly misinterpreting Sam's amusement as discomfort.

"Never better," Sam assures him, flashing a brief, insincere smile.

Collins nods. "Do you need anything?"

You to leave, Sam thinks. Out loud he says, "Some water would be nice."

"Of course," Collins says, getting up from his seat, looking like he feels that he should've thought of that himself. Funny, so they agree on something. On two things, Sam silently amends, a vision of brown eyes and sunny smiles flashing before his mind's eye.

He reaches out to take the plastic cup Collins is holding out uncertainly as if he isn't sure whether or not to hold it up to Sam's mouth. Snowball's chance in hell...

Sam's hand is unsteady but he manages a few awkward mouthfuls without spilling too much water down his front. Oh well, drinking lying down was never easy and the morphine slowly dripping into his IV probably isn't there to improve coordination.

He holds out the cup and Collins takes it from him, setting it down on the bedside table next to a bouquet of lilies. Lilies. Seriously.

They fall into a not entirely comfortable silence, but Sam no longer cares. He just doesn't want to talk to Nick Collins anymore right now.

He watches the morphine solution slowly dripping into his IV, feeling his eyelids get heavier.

When he wakes up again the sky outside the window is darkening. He turns his head to see that Collins is still in his chair, reading a pamphlet about coronary disease.

Sam wonders briefly if the real reason he's here is to smother him to death with a pillow and why he didn't just get on with it while he was asleep, but surely Collins is a much too stand up guy to ever even _think_ dark thoughts like that.

"You saved my life," Nick says when he looks up and finds Sam watching him. Sam is surprised. Whatever he might have expected the younger officer to want to get off his chest, this isn't it.

"I don't know," he says. "I think it was the other way around."

"No," Nick insists. "He would've shot me first if you hadn't called out for him."

Sam doesn't say anything. He doesn't want to tell Collins that it wasn't him he was trying to save. He doesn't even want to admit that to himself.

"Why weren't you wearing your vest?" Nick asks after a silence Sam would have much preferred to continue.

Sam turns his head to look at the ceiling, but the crack that is forming from the wall behind his bed isn't coming up with any answers for him. "There wasn't time," he says finally.

Out of the corner of his eye he can see Collins nodding slowly. "I was wearing my vest, you should've let me take the bullet."

Sam turns to look at him, incredulous.

"I'm serious," Nick pushes on. "I'd have gotten a bruise, that's it."

"Unless he missed the vest, of course," Sam says conversationally, as if they're discussing the weather. "But if you're right, I didn't really save your life, did I?"

Collins shakes his head quickly. "That's not what I meant. I just, I feel responsible."

Sam laughs briefly, then winces at the pain this causes where a bullet went into his body two days before. There's a voice in the back of his mind whispering that he should just tell Collins that he _is_ responsible, that Sam never would have been in that hallway at that moment if it weren't for Nick Collins. Because if he hadn't seen Collins kissing Andy he never would have left the barn, and they wouldn't have realized that Kevin Ford was there.

Things would have gone down very differently. But the end result wouldn't necessarily have been any better.

"Don't," Sam says simply.

Collins' smile in response is unconvincing, but he doesn't say anything else. When Oliver shows up ten minutes later he says a quick goodbye and leaves. Sam sees Oliver stretching to watch him walking down the hallway, his brow furrowed in confusion, but then he shrugs and moves to sit in the now vacant chair.

"This might be the dumbest thing you've ever done, Sammy," he says, the warmth in his eyes belying the harshness of the words.

"It's not like I did it on purpose," Sam argues, joking back. "Besides, it wasn't my squad car he drove up in."

Oliver winces. "I know, man," he says. "I'm really sorry."

Sam pulls a face. "Don't. It's not your fault." Funny how this doesn't seem to be anyone's fault.

Oliver sighs. "Okay then. That's that out of the way," he says dismissively, mentally pulling himself up. "Wanna grab a pint at the Penny?"

This time Sam is prepared for the pain that laughing causes, but that doesn't make it hurt any less.

* * *

Nick was right when he said Sam should be prepared for a lot of visitors, and when a nurse finally comes in to inform Frank and Noelle that visiting hours ended an hour ago and they need to leave, he is relieved to finally get some peace from the steady stream of well-meaning people who want to convince themselves that he's going to live.

Everyone has been there. Everyone except Marlo and Andy. He's not _really_ surprised that neither of them have been there, but he isn't sure if he's relieved or disappointed. Part of him had expected Andy to come by and he spends the first ten minutes of solitude watching the door, because she might just have been waiting for everyone else to leave before sneaking in.

But the hall remains empty, his door doesn't open, and in the end he closes his eyes and tries to go to sleep. Just as he is drifting off the door creaks open and he smiles to himself. He knows her.

"Sam? Are you awake?" a familiar voice ask quietly. A different voice.

His smile fades, and he is thankful for the near-darkness that doesn't let her see that. "Marlo, hi. No, come on in." He sits up a little, adjusting the pillows behind him.

She doesn't turn on the lights and in the bit of light coming in through the closed blinds she only just avoids bumping into the bed on her way to the chair that has seated about half the people he knows by now.

"I would've come sooner," she tells him. "I just didn't want to run into anyone. I can't really—"

When she trails off he shakes his head in the darkness, unseen. "That's okay," he says reassuringly. "How are you?"

"I don't know," she says, and she sounds so defeated he wants to reach out and hold her hand but she's too far away, and he's sure that's on purpose.

"Everything's gonna be okay," he tells her, wanting the words to be true but well aware of how inadequate they are.

"I never meant for any of this to happen." There's a hint of desperation in her voice and Sam is instantly worried that she's back off her meds. It only takes a few seconds for him to dismiss the thought as ridiculous, but it is enough to make him realize why she didn't tell him in the first place. And to make him marvel at the fact that Andy managed to keep it a secret.

"I know that," he reassures her. "Everyone does."

She laughs humorlessly. "That's not gonna stop them from throwing me under the bus, though."

"They fired you?" He asks, surprised that the review board would have come to a decision that quickly. These things normally take ages.

"No. But it was-suggested that I might want to resign," she says, her tone making it clear that there has been no suggesting going on.

He hesitates, not sure what to say to that. He would have done whatever he could to make this all go away, to have it not have happened, but now that it has, he doesn't really see how she could just to back to work, even after a lengthy suspension. He might've thought a transfer would be enough, but even if Kevin Ford hadn't gone on a rampage, everyone still knows that she's bipolar now.

And while that really shouldn't matter, it does. Sam knows her better than anyone at 15, and even he isn't able to not let it be a factor. To not weigh her every move on a scale of 'How likely is it that she's losing it again?' because he's seen what can happen if she does. It's not that he wants to, and it's not that he thinks it's right or even okay to do it, but he can't help it, and he knows the others won't be able to either.

They'll be putting their lives in her hands, after all.

Through everything that has happened, he's had her back, because they were partners, and that's what partners do, but he's not one hundred percent sure he'll be able to trust her to have his after this. And if he can't, how will Oliver or Epstein or Price?

"I handed in my badge yesterday," she says, saving him from having to come up with the right words to tell her. "I'm staying in town until the investigation is complete and then I'm going. Unless..." She trails off and it takes Sam a moment to realize that the second half of that sentence is, "unless they decide to press criminal charges." Only after that does he wonder if maybe it's, "unless you want me to stay."

"Okay," Marlo says, as if they've just settled some big discussion during the silence that follows her 'unless.' "Look, I'm not very-" she stops herself and he can hear her fidgeting in her seat. "This is over, right?"

"What?" He's too shocked by the abruptness of the question to not sound surprised.

"Us, I mean," she elaborates, as if that's what's confusing him. "I can't just go back. Can you?"

"I guess not," Sam agrees, because there's really nothing else he can say.

"Do you want to?" She asks, sounding surprised by his tone.

He sighs. He hasn't had any time to himself yet, no chance to sort out his feelings about everything that happened right before Kevin Ford shot him. And what happened after.

Then again, that shouldn't really matter. He shouldn't be making decisions about his relationship with Marlo based on his feelings about Andy. Whatever those feelings are. "No," he admits at last.

"I didn't think so," she says, sounding more relaxed than she has since she walked in the room. Clearly this conversation went the way she wanted it to.

"Where are you gonna go?" He asks.

"I dunno," she says dismissively, and he thinks maybe she does know, she just doesn't want to tell him. He doesn't push her; it doesn't matter anyway, it's not as if he's going to follow her. "Have you, uh, has McNally been here?"

He shakes his head and then remembers that she can't see him properly in the near-darkness. "No." He doesn't add the, "Not yet," that is at the tip of his tongue.

She gets up and walks up to the bed. When she gets close enough, he can see that she is smiling. "Thank you, for everything. I really mean that," she tells him. "And I am really, really sorry."

"Don't be," he assures her.

She leans down and kisses him softly on the cheek, her full lips just brushing against the corner of his mouth. "Bye, Swarek."

He smiles at her while her face is still close enough for her to see. "Bye."

Marlo walks out and closes the door quietly behind her. He doesn't hear her retreating steps, however, but when he strains his ears he's sure he can hear her sobbing through the door.

_TBC_


	2. Chapter 2

_Okay, I've re-read and tweaked this chapter to the extent that it doesn't really make sense to me anymore. They're just words on a page by now. So I'm just going to post this and then I can focus on chapter 3. Needless to say I'm not very happy with this, but, hey, at least *spoiler* is there._

* * *

Sam wakes up the next morning confused and disoriented until a slight throbbing pain in his gut reminds him what happened and where he is. His eyes open slowly and as he turns his head he sees Andy sitting where he had found Collins when he woke up the first time around. This was what he wanted yesterday, but the relief he had expected to feel at the sight of her isn't there.

"Hi," she says, her voice soft.

He smiles through the fog of sleep that is engulfing him, caused by the pain medication making it harder to wake up properly. "Hi. Are visiting hours this early?"

She shakes her head, smiling back at him, her eyes never leaving his face. "I persuaded the nurse to let me in anyway."

"Really?"

"I can be _very_ persuasive."

"Yes, you can, McNally," he agrees, his voice raspy, turning his head towards the bedside table, trying to work out how to pick up the cup that is very inconveniently located on the side of the bed where the IV needle is sticking out of his hand. Before his eyes even land on the cup she is on her feet pouring him a glass of water. He lifts his head and lets her bring the cup to his lips so he can drink. When he is done she pulls the cup away, somehow knowing exactly how much he wants to drink.

His head falls back on his pillow and he closes his eyes. How is it that she knows just what to do and how to take care of him? And how is it only when she sits back down that he realizes he didn't even stop to think about taking the cup from her when yesterday he refused to let Collins help?

"So whose is this?" She asks him teasingly and he opens his eyes to see her holding up a flimsy pink scarf. "I wouldn't have thought this was your color."

He looks at it for a few seconds. "That's Marlo's," he says at last.

Andy puts it down on the windowsill behind her. "Right." Her eyes are on the floor, but she glances up at him briefly before asking, "So she was here?"

"Yeah. She came by last night. She must've dropped it." And she must have realized that once she got outside and then decided it was not worth coming back for it, he thinks.

Andy nods, still looking at the floor. "That's good," she says. "I just mean no one's seen her. Luke said he thinks she'll probably be fired if she doesn't quit."

Sam doesn't tell her that she already did. It is no longer his business. "And you're worried what'll happen to you?"

She looks up at him at last. "I'm worried what'll happen to _all_ of us. You and Nick, too."

Sam opens his mouth to point out that the only reason anything might happen to Nick is that _she_ chose to share Marlo's secret with him, but she looks so genuinely worried that he can't bring himself to. "All Collins is going to get is a slap on the wrist, I wouldn't worry too much. _He_ didn't seem to."

Andy doesn't seem surprised that Collins and Sam have talked about it and he assumes that they've already discussed it. Clearly sharing is a big deal with the two of them. Very healthy and well-adjusted. The word 'normal' springs to Sam's mind, but he squashes it down. Somehow he no longer has a taste for 'normal.'

"And what about us, then?"

"Well, I'm sure you'll be fired. I'll probably get a medal for catching this bullet," he jokes.

She winces and he isn't sure if it's because of the idea that she'll lose her job or it's the reference to his injury.

"It'll be fine," he tells her reassuringly. Except he's not really sure it will and he can tell that she knows.

"Luke was _so_ angry," she tells him. "Because we lied to him, about Kevin Ford."

Sam sighs. "Well, we couldn't exactly tell him the truth, could we?"

Andy shrugs, but doesn't say anything. She knows as well as he does that Luke is too by-the-book to ever bend the rules for a colleague, and he would have never done anything untoward to protect Marlo's career. If he had found evidence pointing to her - and without the forged log entry her fingerprints on Ford's computer would have pointed straight at her - he would have followed that evidence down a path that would have ended Marlo's future in the police force. Evidence that wouldn't have solved the case, which is how Sam has rationalized it to himself and he expects Andy has been doing the same. Except that got harder when Ford went after all of them.

There is no denying that a large part of the responsibility for that is his, and he has made Andy responsible too by bringing her into it.

"Look, I made you do it," he tells her. "Just make sure they know that. Tell them you didn't want to, and I made you."

"You didn't exactly hold a gun to my head," she objects. "I didn't _have_ to do it."

"Maybe you felt like you did?" He suggests.

She sighs loudly. "I don't really think a review board is going to care too much about my feelings."

He looks at her carefully but her eyes are back on the ground. He isn't sure which feelings she's talking about. How obligated she felt to help her former T.O., or her feelings for him?

Either way they're the feelings that got her into this mess, which means she shouldn't be having them.

"I'm sorry you had to get involved," he tells her. He knows he's said it before, but it seems like the sort of thing that bears repeating.

She looks up. "I'm sorry you got shot."

He smiles slightly. "That wasn't your fault."

"I can still be sorry," she insists.

"Okay."

"You're okay though, right?" She asks, sounding worried.

"I will be," he assures her.

"You really scared me, Sam," she says, her voice a mixture of blame and a fear that still lingers. "Just walking out like that, when you knew there was someone out there who wanted to kill all of us."

Sam sighs. He had thought she meant he scared her by getting shot, but instead she wants to talk about what happened before that. "Well, if I hadn't we wouldn't have known he was already inside," he says. He's not really up for a discussion about what happened and why.

"That's not an excuse to put yourself in harm's way like that." She is no longer fidgeting and he can hear the frustration in her voice although her eyes when she looks at him are filled with worry.

"Yeah, well, I don't think I really need to explain myself to you, McNally." He's not really sure what he's doing, or why he's saying the words coming out of his mouth, but seeing her like this, consumed with worry for him, somehow makes him want to push her away, because he can't be responsible for that.

"That's not what I meant, Sam."

He opens his mouth to ask her what it is she means, then, but he already knows, because she told him in the ambulance, and he doesn't want to hear that again. Not now.

That day he listened to her story and what he told her was true, it's a great story, but now, on the other end of it, that's not enough. He let her say those words because they might be the last words he would ever hear, and Andy declaring her love for him was not a bad way to go, all things considered. But now no one is dying and nothing is going to change. She is still with Collins, and that is still the right choice for her.

He will take care of her much better than Sam can do, and he will not have her sitting in a hospital room at six in the morning because he walked in front of a bullet. He won't get her suspended, he would _never_ let her risk her career. And he certainly wouldn't let her do it twice.

It occurs to him that they've been in this place before. The situation might've been different – no one had been shot and no one had said the word 'love' – but on the whole, this is pretty much like when he told her to choose Luke.

Because no matter what Sam wants, no matter how he feels, there's always going to be a better guy out there, who will take care of her better than he could do.

Who will make her happy instead of just making her think he will and then walking away.

"Sam?" she asks when he doesn't say anything. Can't think of what else to say. Because he wants her to go, but he doesn't want to tell her to leave.

"It doesn't matter _what_ you meant, McNally. This is what happened, and now everything is going to go back to the way it was."

Her eyes widen in surprise. "What?"

He shrugs awkwardly, the pillows getting in his way. "This is all going to heal," he says, indicating his abdomen with a wave of his hand. "We'll all get a slap on the wrist, and then it'll be like it never happened."

"Any of it?"

He pauses, not sure how to answer that question. He knows she means what she told him in ambulance, _and_ what he told her before the shooting. But one of those things is going to still have happened. "Pretty much, yeah," he agrees.

Her shoulders sag. He doesn't know what she was really expecting. She hadn't exactly come in all eager to hold hands or anything, but it's clear to him that she wasn't expecting their conversation to go like this.

Except then she straightens up and nods, her chin jutting forward. "Okay," she agrees. "Great."

Sam looks at her carefully, waiting for some sort of reaction, an outburst of anger, but her walls are being reconstructed right in front of him, and it is only when he sees it happen he realizes that they were down at all.

She stands up. "I should go. Call if you need anything, okay?" She offers, not sounding at all like she's expecting him to.

Sam just nods, not trusting himself to speak.

She walks out of the room but stops in the doorway to look back at him. Their eyes meet and he is reminded of a conversation they had after the break-up. He had wanted to take it back, and clearly she could sense that, but in the end he couldn't bring himself to do it. Still, she had the same look on her face then as she does now, like a dog that's been kicked but is still somehow hoping to be thrown a bone.

She pauses only for a few seconds before speaking. "Bye," she says, and then she is gone.

* * *

Oliver comes to pick him up from the hospital a week later, offering to push the wheelchair and earning himself a glare from Sam to which he responds with a grin and a pat on the back.

They're halfway to his apartment before Oliver broaches the subject that Sam has been dreading the whole ride. "So, have you spoken to McNally?"

Sam looks out the passenger door window. "Yes." He doesn't elaborate.

"And how did she seem to you?" Oliver asks, pretending he hasn't noticed that Sam really doesn't want to talk about it.

"Fine," Sam says, shaking his head. "Worried about her career."

"That's it?"

"Yeah."

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam can see his friend nodding to himself.

"How's Celery?" he asks. He doesn't want to talk about Andy, and hopefully this is a topic that'll keep Oliver talking for the rest of the drive. As much as he doesn't want to hear about happy coupledom right now, it's better than discussing his own inability to be happy in any way.

"Oh, she's great," Oliver replies. "Well, y'know, she fusses a lot." It's clear from his voice that he doesn't actually mind that. "She has me drinking this tea that's supposed to 'heal' me. I don't know. It tastes bad enough that it might work."

Sam laughs briefly.

"She's great, though, man," Oliver goes on. "I don't know how I would've gotten through this without her." His words sound pointed to Sam's ears, so he doesn't reply.

The rest of the drive is silent, and when they pull up in front of Sam's building Oliver sits for a moment, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, before he pulls the key from the ignition and gets out. He picks up the small overnight bag of things Sam has had with him in the hospital, and walks ahead of Sam up the stairs.

"Are you sure you'll be okay here on your own?" He asks finally, when they are both inside and he can see Sam wince at the pain it causes when he bends down to pick up the mail from the hallway floor.

"I'll be fine," Sam insists.

Oliver walks to the living room and drops the bag on the couch. "Okay. But if you need anything, anything at all, you call me, okay? Anytime of day, doesn't matter."

"Sure. Thanks," Sam replies, looking at him just long enough to convey gratitude. All he wants to do right now is be alone.

"Okay," Oliver says again, sounding like he isn't sure it is. He walks over to Sam and gives him an awkward half-hug, avoiding his stitches. Sam hugs him back thinking he might as well just go along with this uncharacteristic display of emotion. Presumably it'll get him out the door faster.

"Be good," Oliver instructs, opening the front door.

"Always," Sam agrees with a slight smile.

He can hear Oliver laughing even after the door is closed behind him.

When he can no longer hear the sound of his retreating steps on the stairs outside, Sam pulls out his phone. His mind is made up, he's going to stick with the plan he made before Andy chased him into the parking lot and discovered Oliver's squad car. He shuffles through his contacts and locates the right number, takes a deep breath, and presses 'dial'.

When he hangs up five minutes later he realizes that he's been pacing and goes to sit down on the couch, suddenly exhausted.

The conversation has gone as well as could be expected, but not as well as he has hoped. The words suspension, mandatory therapy and review board have all come up.

It isn't a 'no', it's a 'we'll see.'

He looks at the bag Oliver put down on the sofa, unzipping it to pull out its content, and wondering for the first time who brought it to the hospital for him. There's a pair of jeans in there, which he had discarded in favor of the sweatpants that had also been put into the bag and which were less uncomfortable of his wound, some toiletries, and a paperback copy of Tolstoy's _War & Peace_. Whoever packed this bag did not find that book in his apartment. But the jeans are his favorite pair, and he's pretty sure they were in the hamper when he left for work that day and now they're clean.

So whoever had packed this knew which clothes he liked, and took their time to wash them, but also bizarrely thought he would enjoy Russian literature.

He drops the book on the coffee table and brings everything else through to the bedroom where he drops off the clothes before continuing to the bathroom and replacing everything from there.

Marlo's toothbrush is still in its holder. Somehow he thinks if she had been to his apartment to get his things, she would've gotten her own as well. He picks it up and drops it in the bin. She hasn't been back to the hospital since the first night after he woke up and he doesn't expect he'll ever see her again unless their hearings happen to be scheduled back-to-back which seems unlikely.

When everything has been put away he goes back to the living room and settles on the couch, picking up the remote and flicking the channels trying to find something mind-numbing to watch. At three in the afternoon that shouldn't be too much of a challenge.

He hasn't seen Andy again either, but after his phone call he isn't sure he'll be able to avoid that completely. He is still assigned to 15, so 'mandatory therapy' means going to 15, and Andy's suspension won't last forever.

He blows out a gust of air, settling on a talk show about people whose lives are more messed up than his own. At least he's not having to do paternity tests or admitting to his girlfriend that he's in love with her father.

He's never met Marlo's family but he has a fleeting vision of himself declaring his love for Tommy McNally. The idea would've been funny if not for the fact that it implied that his brain somehow still thinks of Andy in terms of 'girlfriend'.

Sam shakes his head and turns off the television. At least that's proof he's doing the right thing.

_TBC_


	3. Chapter 3

_Can I just say, wow? The amount of people following this story and caring about it is completely blowing me away. It's also making me feel a bit guilty because of where this is going: If this were a game of "please don't let that happen"-bingo, I would be winning. So I'd like to take this opportunity to say thank you(!) and I'm sorry. I really mean that. _

_Also, trust me? There _is _a plan. ;)_

* * *

Two weeks have gone by when Sam makes his way to 15 for his first proper dose of 'Life goes on without you.'

Really, he's there for an appointment with Dr. Dwyer, but walking through the busy bullpen, feeling displaced and out of the loop, makes him think that maybe getting to the therapist's office does more harm than one hour of talking about the color of their feelings ever did anyone good.

Some people look up as he walks past them, some come over to welcome him back, and some don't seem to notice that he's even there - and he doesn't recognize them either.

He wonders if Frank planned it this way on purpose, making sure his appointment was during a different shift. He wonders if it's supposed to make things better or worse.

There is no proof anymore that anything even remotely dramatic ever took place in the building. The glass Ford fell through when Collins shot him has been replaced, furniture has been repaired, and the blood Sam himself spilled on the floor of this hallway, in this very spot, has been removed with industrial strength cleaner by some maintenance guy who probably couldn't care less whose blood he was mopping up.

"Sam!" Someone shouts out behind him and he turns, smiling automatically.

"Nash. Shouldn't you be at home with your kid?"

"Yeah, well, y'know," she says, smiling back. "We're a detective short, so I'm pulling a lot of overtime."

"You mean Frank hasn't replaced me yet?" he jokes.

She laughs, shaking her head. "No. I asked him to, believe me, but he insists you'll be back and then there'll be too much paperwork getting rid of your replacement."

Sam frowns, glancing behind him in the direction of Frank's office. That really isn't the answer he expected and he wonders if maybe he should give the sergeant a call. He never did tell him about his plans, just sort of assumed HQ would pass on the message. He knows that's not a good way to handle it, of course, but he can't bring himself to care these days.

"I've been getting some help from Guns & Gangs," Nash explains, clearly mistaking Sam's confusion for worry that she's over-worked. "Detective Peck has been really helpful."

I'm sure he has, Sam thinks to himself. He doesn't begrudge Traci this new chance at happiness after what she went through with Jerry, but it's further proof that anyone is replaceable. "I should get going," he tells her, pointing vaguely in the direction of the stairs leading to Dr. Dwyer's office, his eyes on the ceiling.

"Yeah, of course," she agrees. "Are you coming to the Penny later? Everyone's gonna be there."

The corners of his mouth twitch downward. Clearly 'everyone' means McNally. "I don't think so. I'm pretty low on energy these days." He wonders briefly if using a gun shot wound as an excuse to get out of seeing people is cowardly, or if it's just an outright lie, but then decides that he doesn't care. It's an excuse, and having an excuse is easier.

And right now he needs just one thing to be easy.

Nash seems to accept his answer, or maybe she just decides not to push him, and she leaves him with a slightly teasing, "Well, have fun," and a roll of her eye.

He manages a half-smile in reply and then makes his way down the hall and up the stairs, feeling as exhausted as he pretended to be just minutes ago at the thought of what he's going to have to sit through for the next hour.

Dr. Dwyer looks up from the pad she's writing on when he knocks on the door and walks in without waiting for an answer. She smiles and stands up to shake his hand. "Detective Swarek."

For a split second he wants to ignore her and just sit down, but then he dismisses the idea as childish, and more importantly as an action she is definitely going to read something into, and so he steps forward and briefly shakes her proffered hand before sitting down in the sofa she's indicating.

"I'm glad you came," she tells him, settling in the armchair across from him.

He looks at her, eyebrows raised. "I didn't realize it was optional."

She shrugs in agreement. "All the same."

She is sitting in her chair legs crossed at the ankles and looks at him in a way that is not unkind but still makes him feel judged. Clearly she is waiting for him to speak.

"I never thought I'd be back here," he tells her, not sure what they're supposed to be talking about. It sure as hell isn't going to be anything important.

"What _are_ you doing here?" She asks.

He smiles. He knows what she's trying to do, but he doesn't want to take the bait. "I don't know," he says.

"You don't know what happened to you?" She asks.

"I was shot, is that what you mean?" He says, snorting.

"I suppose," she agrees, and he's a little bit confused, because she sounds like that's _not_ what she means. "Do you want to tell me what happened?"

He sighs. "Crazy man came to our house, he tried to hurt people. We stopped him."

"We?"

"Yeah."

"We, who?"

"We, the officers of 15," he says as if he's quoting a pledge of allegiance.

She smiles at that. "All of you, working together as a team. That's nice."

He snorts but when her eyebrows shoot up in question he shakes his head. "Yeah, it is," he agrees. That's easier than trying to explain, and odds are she already knows everything that happened. Someone must've briefed her.

She doesn't say anything else, clearly expecting him to keep the conversation going. It's probably some shrink technique that's supposed to reveal something deep and meaningful about him. Well, she can just read whatever she wants into his silence, then.

They sit like that for almost ten minutes, and Sam is perfectly happy to spend the entire hour like this but then she finally shifts in her seat, smiling a little as if admitting defeat. "I feel that since you made the effort to come here, perhaps we should make use of this time and-" she pauses as if she hasn't had ages to come up with the right words. "-discuss what happened to you."

"I thought we just did that," he says. Like he's a kid pretending that ten seconds is plenty of time to brush his teeth.

"Are you sleeping okay?" she asks, ignoring him. "Any nightmares?"

He shrugs. They are _not_ going there. He dreams about the shooting every single night, but he is never the one getting shot. It is always Andy, and he is always too late to save her, and then he wakes up terrified and actually has the phone in his hand ready to call her and make sure she's okay before he realizes what he's doing and puts it away. For the last two nights he has slept with the phone in the other room just to make sure he doesn't accidentally call her in his sleep.

"I can prescribe something to help you with that," Dr. Dwyer offers.

Sam laughs humorlessly at the idea of her giving him drugs. "No, thanks."

"It's not the same thing," she tells him, interpreting his laughter correctly. "As I understand it Officer Cruz was, is, on Olanzapine, I would be prescribing sleeping pills. Temporarily."

He knows Marlo talked to Dr. Dwyer in the past, but clearly doctor/patient confidentiality isn't an issue here. Or maybe she just knows that he knows so there's no reason to beat around the bush. "Still, no thanks."

"Have you spoken with your colleagues about the incident?" She asks, moving on.

He nods. "Yeah." It's true, he _has_ spoken to pretty much everybody. Just not since he was released. Oliver calls him several times a day and he answers just often enough to keep him from coming over and banging the door down, but he always manages to end the conversation after a minute or two. No one else has tried to get in touch, probably deterred by Oliver's failed attempts.

Well, MacNally is probably more deterred by his behavior in the hospital, but frankly that suits him just fine.

"So you feel that you're dealing well with what happened?" She doesn't sound sarcastic, which surprises him. It actually seems like she thinks he could really be of that opinion.

"Yeah," he says again. Maybe this'll be it. Maybe she'll sign off on his psych eval and that'll be that.

"Anything else you'd like to talk about?"

"Nope."

"Okay," she says, nodding and standing up. He gets to his feet quickly, surprised by how easy this has been. "Why don't we meet again next week at the same time, then?"

His face falls and she smiles, shaking her head slightly at his naive assumption that they're done. "Sounds good," he replies flatly, shaking her hand and walking out the door. When it is closed behind him, he leans against the wall to her office and sighs deeply.

As he leaves the barn he takes a detour past Frank's office, but it is empty and so he makes his way to the parking lot and drives home.

* * *

When he gets there Andy is sitting on the steps leading to his front door hugging herself against the cold evening air. He pauses by his car, sighing and then bracing himself. He's not surprised that she's there, but all the same, he would have much rather not done this now. Dr. Dwyer hasn't pushed him to talk about anything, but he went into her office expecting that she would, and it has left him feeling raw and exposed. And somewhere deep down, a little bit disappointed that she didn't, because maybe, just maybe, there _are_ things he should talk about to _someone_.

He walks slowly up the path, stopping a few feet from Andy and she looks up at him. There's plenty of space on the step for him to sit down next to her, but there's a voice in his head screaming, "Too close! Too soon! Too close!" So instead he leans against the railing, putting himself out of arm's reach. He doesn't necessarily enjoy the way he feels like he's towering over her, but it's better than the alternative.

"You're leaving?" she asks, getting straight to the point when he doesn't say anything. A different point than the one he was expecting.

"Who told you?" Nash hadn't known, and it had sounded as if Frank didn't know yet either, unless he just doesn't believe it, so how could Andy have found out?

"You did, just now," she says, her eyes boring into his, looking for confirmation.

He shrugs, looking at the ground.

She scoffs, shaking her head. "This is just like you," she says, sounding frustrated and sad at the same time.

His face hardens but he doesn't look up. "It's not, actually. It's just like you."

"That's not fair," she tells him, but she doesn't sound anywhere near as angry as he is expecting, although still angry enough.

"I guess that's life for you, McNally,"

"Sam, please," she begs and he marvels at how quickly she moved from Anger to Bargaining. Maybe by the time this conversation is over she will have made it to Acceptance and they won't have to talk about it again. About anything.

He takes a deep breath, reminding himself why he's doing this. Then he looks up finally, and feels his resolve crumble immediately at the sight of the tears that are threatening to spill from her eyes. He knows if he opens his mouth he's going to say the words he's determined not to, tell her everything he promised himself he wouldn't, so he just shakes his head reminding himself that this is the home stretch.

"Why?" she asks, and he can tell that she's genuinely confused.

He shrugs, waiting until he's absolutely sure the right words are going to come out before he speaks. "I just feel like a change of scenery."

She shakes her head in wordless rejection of his explanation.

"I told you why," he says, his eyes trained on a naked branch behind her head.

"But Sam-"

"Go home, McNally," he cuts her off. He can't listen to her arguing with him about this. His mind is made up, but every fiber of his being wants him to change his mind and just hold her and pretend the rest of the world doesn't exist. "Kiss your boyfriend and go to sleep. I'm sure tomorrow everything'll be rosy."

She opens her mouth to speak but then closes it again slowly, like a goldfish. Then her eyes go cold, and he is momentarily winded by the loathing they project. "Screw you, Sam," she says coldly and then she gets up from her seat and walks away.

His hand reaches out for her without his brain even telling it to, but it's too late, she is already turning to walk down the street, never looking back at him. His shoulders sag and he drops to the same step she was sitting on just seconds before, feeling a trace of the warmth she left behind through his jeans. He buries his head in his hands, taking deep, slow breaths, his mind like a broken record, reminding himself that he's doing it for her, too.

_TBC_


	4. Chapter 4

_AN: This is not me saying it's going to be this simple on the show. I think it's going to be super messy, because it ought to be, and they said they're continuing right from where they left off, so they'll have to deal with it. I just don't know how to write that, so instead I'm doing this and pretending that it could happen. It totally couldn't, and I know, so you don't need to tell me that in reviews. ;) Just, I'm pretty sure Luke's beard came with superpowers and now he can do anything. Anything._

* * *

There is a knock at the door and Sam freezes, his spoonful of cereal halfway to his mouth, wondering if whoever is out there will just go away if he sits still for long enough. He isn't necessarily enjoying the self-imposed solitude he's living in these days but that doesn't mean he wants it interrupted.

"Swarek, open the door," Luke Callaghan shouts, pounding on the door again for good measure.

Sam replaces the spoon in the bowl and rubs a hand through his hair, feeling exhausted. He goes to the bedroom and pulls on yesterday's t-shirt. He eyes his jeans for a second but then decides that the sweats he slept in and is still wearing will have to do.

When he finally opens the door Luke is leaning against the door frame, his cellphone in his hand.

"Can I come in?" he asks rhetorically, already moving.

Sam steps aside and waves his arm in silent, irrelevant, assent. It's not hard to guess why his fellow detective is here, and he is torn between appreciation that Luke is not making him come to the station to do it, and annoyance that he wasn't given any warning.

But then again, neither are the suspects they question every day, and why should he be treated differently?

Mostly he's just amazed it took this long. He's already been given the date for his disciplinary.

"I hear you requested a transfer," Luke says without preamble.

Sam frowns. He had assumed this would be about Marlo and Ford. "I asked what my options might be," he says, not sure why he feels the need to talk it down. He _did_ ask to leave.

"So you're not sure?"

Sam shrugs. "Why? Does that matter?" He doesn't really see how his career choices are in any way relevant to Callaghan.

Luke looks him squarely in the eye. "They asked if I wanted you on my team."

Oh. Sam pulls a face. "I guess I'll be staying at 15, then."

"That depends why you want to leave."

"I just think it's time to move on."

Luke nods. "So this is nothing to do with Andy or Marlo?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Sam objects, even if that isn't an unreasonable question, really.

"Come on, Sammy," Luke says, sounding exasperated.

"Marlo and I are done. Once the investigation is over, she's leaving town."

"And Andy?"

Sam shakes his head, not sure what to say. "What about her?"

"You trying to get away from _her_?"

"No," Sam says after a pause that goes on for too long, and it's clear that Luke knows he's lying.

"You guys are such a fucking mess," Luke spits out. "I can't even imagine what would've happened if I had married her."

Sam is immediately riled up at what Luke is implying. "I guess we'll never know," he says coldly.

Luke raises his eyebrows. "Oh, I know, Swarek," he says. "You tried it on once, you won't get me to believe you wouldn't have tried again."

Sam smiles humorlessly, his eyes closed, and shakes his head. Part of him wants to just tell the truth, that _she_ was the one who came to him, that if the power hadn't come back on when it did something more would've definitely happened and all their lives could've been oh so different. "I'm not sure I understand why you'd even consider offering me a spot on your team if that's what you think of me."

"Because you're a good cop. Not so much lately, maybe, but you used to be. Maybe if you get away from all that you will be again. I just need to know you aren't just running away."

"The way Andy did when you picked her for Dakota, you mean?"

At least Luke has the decency to look just slightly guilty. "Your relationship is nothing to do with me, as long as it doesn't get in the way. I didn't pick her so she could get away from you."

Sam throws him a skeptical look.

"Okay, if we didn't have a history, I wouldn't have picked her. There were other people who looked better on paper. But I knew her, I knew she could do a good job. Just like I know you can do a good job even if, right now, you look pretty shitty on paper. You do get that right?"

Sam just looks at him.

"You fucked up, Sam. Big time. This isn't just going to go away," he threatens. "Marlo already quit, and who the hell knows what they're going to do about you. And Andy."

"Why are you telling me this?" Sam asks, genuinely confused, but also more than a little bit angry. "You want me to _beg_ you to give me a job? Be grateful?"

"You know what, you _should_ be grateful. Grateful you didn't flush both your careers down the toilet the way you let Marlo do with hers."

Sam takes a menacing step forward, not even realizing that he's doing it. "I did not _let_ Marlo do anything. I had no idea she was even sick until McNally told me. _After_ Ford was attacked," he adds, slightly calmer.

"Yeah, I know," Luke says, unfazed. "Andy told me. She also told me she changed Marlo's log."

Sam closes his eyes, preparing himself for whatever accusations will come next.

"I spoke to Frank, that doesn't go any further," Luke says instead. "As far as the internal investigation is concerned, the only thing that got covered up was Cruz' mental health situation. You're both getting a slap on the wrist, a few months' suspension and it'll go on your record."

Sam's eyes open and he stares at Luke, speechless, marveling at how neatly he is apparently tying this up in a little bow. This is less than what they got for Conduct Unbecoming two years ago. He doesn't understand why, though.

"Look, I knew something was up with you guys when we were investigating Ford's attack," Luke explains. "I didn't ask. I should've done. I guess I just didn't want to know."

"Uh," Sam says, amazed at the amount of guilt that's going around over something that no one could have ever predicted.

Luke smiles slightly, not particularly warmly. "We could've all done some things differently and changed how this played out. That's all I'm saying." He moves towards the door. "I have a spot opening up in a month or two, I'll hold it for you if you want. But I need you to be sure, so take your time, figure out what you really want, and then let me know."

Sam follows him and holds the door open for him. He wants to open his mouth and tell him that he _is_ sure, he does want the job, but he doesn't say it. For one thing, Luke wouldn't believe him, but it's also that he can't. He's figured out what he wants, but he still needs to figure out how to actually _want_ it.

He nods goodbye to Luke and watches him make his way down the stairs and across the street to where his car is parked before stepping inside and closing the door. Back in the kitchen he picks up his bowl of what was once cereal and milk but which is now reduced to a gooey mess and rinses it out in the sink.

He's not entirely sure he's interested in working with Callaghan, but the man is right, after all of this his options are probably going to be pretty limited. And, really, the only reason they've ever not gotten along is Andy. Before she came to 15 he was just another detective. Unlike Jerry he had transferred in rather than working there as an officer first, and that made him an outsider. He wasn't part of the group, but he wasn't someone Sam didn't get on with. He did a good job and that was really all that mattered back then.

Perhaps it will be that way again with McNally out of the picture. On the other hand, Sam thinks to himself, sighing, there's absolutely no doubt in his mind that he and Andy would be in a much worse situation right now if Luke hadn't been looking out for her. And if he is bending rules and hiding stuff from IA for her now, almost two years after their relationship ended, what kind of chance does Sam himself have of moving on?

* * *

He's back in Dr. Dwyer's office, and he isn't really sure how or why. He never leaves there without feeling that he's wasting his time – and hers – but still he keeps returning every week. Maybe it's because he doesn't actually see any other people besides the cashier at the supermarket. He is still on a strict two-minute casual conversation phone call routine with Oliver, and although Sarah has offered repeatedly to take time off and come up from St. Catherines he has declined the offer every time.

Dr. Dwyer smiles at him, her smile more friendly and less measured than the last three weeks. As if they're getting to know each other. She glances briefly at the clock on the wall and then indicates the sofa for him to sit down. "Very punctual," she says.

Punctuality is easy when you spend half an hour parked across the street from the barn, watching your (former) colleagues coming and going, working and living. He doesn't tell her that, though.

He pauses in front of the couch and then, on a whim, decides to lie down instead of sitting. Might as well go all in with the psycho babble cliché. He sees her watching him and flashes a half-teasing smile.

She taps her pen against her desk a couple of times and then she gets up, picking up a notepad and a box of tissues on her way to the armchair. She deposits the tissues on the table by Sam's head and then sits down, crossing her legs and holding up her pen ready to take notes on anything he says.

Her smile is almost as challenging as his and he grins. Touche.

"So how do you feel?" she asks.

He looks at her and then up at the ceiling. "Tired." He can hear the sound of pen against paper and wonders how him being tired is worth writing down.

"Changed your mind about getting something to help with that?"

"No," he answers emphatically.

"Nightmares?" she asks.

He blows out a gust of air. The nightmares are still there but there's a variation to them now, as if his brain is bored with the repeats. It began a few days ago, when, right after Andy had been shot, and Sam stood there looking on helplessly as the blood pooled around her, Nick appeared, shouting at Sam that he should've let him take the bullet instead.

It's not much of an improvement, waking up thinking that, yeah, actually he would've done if that had been the choice. As if he is somehow allowed to play God and decide who lives and who dies.

"No," he lies. He can feel Dr. Dwyer's eyes boring into the side of his head. Clearly he's not convincing. "Not more than what's normal," he amends.

"What's normal, do you think?" she asks, sounding genuinely interested.

"I don't know," he says, regretting his choice of words. This is why silence is always the better option. "When you almost die, isn't it normal to dream about it sometimes?"

"It's not _not_ normal," she replies.

He turns his head so she can see him rolling his eyes.

"There's no right answer here, Sam. Everyone's experience is different."

"That's something you say to people whose experience is abnormal," he tells her flatly. Not that he thinks his reaction is particularly strange or outside whatever norm there is for cops getting shot when they're trying to run away from their ex-girlfriends and their new-found happiness.

"It's something I say to everybody who looks like they need to hear it."

"I don't think I'm weird," Sam insists.

"Okay," she agrees. "So, any nightmares?"

Sam's eyes narrow and he glares at the ceiling in frustration. "Some. I'm dealing with it."

"Good," she says, scribbling away. "How?"

He still sleeps with his phone in the living room, hiding it in a different place every night before he goes to bed. Just in case he'll suddenly begin sleepwalking. He has changed his speed-dial so McNally is no longer third – something he should have done ages ago so he pretends it's not related. But still, just in case. "I count stuff." It's true, he does. He counts the seconds from when the gunshot rings out until the light in Andy's eyes goes out and he wakes up and he is drenched in sweat, although not so much that he doesn't notice the tears on his cheeks.

Seventeen.

"A very good trick," Dr. Dwyer says. "And how is it working for you?"

"You're very pushy today," he tells her, not answering her question.

"You look like you can handle it today," she says, her voice not unkind.

He wants to tell her that she's wrong, he can't handle it at all. "You know that expression, 'If you love somebody, set them free'?" he asks instead.

She nods, waiting for him to continue.

"You believe in that?"

"I believe you should give people the freedom to live their own life and make their own choices," she replies, her words carefully measured, and he shakes his head dismissively.

"That's not what I mean," he says, pausing as he tries to find the right words to explain without explaining too much. "I mean, should you let people go because they'll be better off without you?"

"You think people will be better off without you?" she asks, a slight edge to her voice and he can see the suicide bells going off in her head. Somewhere deep down in a place he normally ignores he feels a sick sort of satisfaction at the thought that now she's worried she pushed him too far. Even if she really didn't push him that much at all.

"I'm not going to kill myself," he says flatly.

"Good," she tells him, nodding, and he thinks she believes him. "So is this why you requested a transfer?"

He sighs. "Yes."

"That's not letting anyone go, though, that's you running away. There's a difference," she points out.

"Maybe sometimes you have to walk away in order to let go," he says, turning his head to look at her.

She frowns. "I'm still not sure I understand why you need to let people go."

He doesn't answer her. It's not as if he doesn't know that from where she's sitting all he needs is to talk about it and then he'll turn into someone well adjusted and normal and he won't feel a need to push people away because letting them in is too hard, it hurts too much when they leave.

"Can I ask you something?" he asks instead, his hand rubbing his chin. He's not entirely sure it's a good idea, but he needs to know.

"Of course," she agrees readily.

"Is McNally-do you see her?"

Dr. Dwyer's brow furrows and she shakes her head slowly. "You know I can't talk about that, Sam."

"Of course," he agrees. "I'm not asking you to tell me what you talk about. I just-"

"You just want to make sure she's okay," Dr. Dwyer finishes for him when he doesn't continue.

He looks her in the eye, not wanting to admit out loud that she's right, but still imploring her to give him an answer.

"I'm going to say something now, Sam. It's probably not what you _want_ to hear, but I'll say it anyway, because I think you need to," Dr. Dwyer says, clicking her pen against her notepad. She catches him watching her do it and stops with a self-deprecating smile.

He raises his eyebrows for her to continue.

"No man is an island," she says and he laughs at the unexpected flash of humor. "No," she goes on when he is quiet again. "I understand your impulse to pull away, and it _is_ natural to feel that way, but you can't. Now, I'm not here to give you relationship advice, but perhaps you need to think beyond your fight or flight instincts here. Maybe you need to seriously consider peaceful coexistence."

He frowns. "I tried that. It didn't turn out too well."

"How do you mean?"

"Well, I'm here," he says, waving a hand around her office.

"You're here because you were shot, Sam," Dr. Dwyer points out.

He grimaces, feeling no need to tell her that on some level those things are all connected. Then again, maybe she already knows judging by the shrewd look on her face.

"I was offered a spot on a task force," he says, changing the subject. "Once my suspension is over and I'm cleared for duty, I mean."

"I know," she tells him. "Do you want to talk about your hearing?"

He shrugs. He doesn't _not_ want to talk about it, he just doesn't care. Everything went as Luke had predicted - as Luke had arranged, probably, however he managed that. "It went fine."

She nods. "So you want to talk about this new job? Is it something you want?"

"It's not something I _don't_ want," he allowed.

"And staying here at 15 is something you don't want?"

"You don't think I should leave?" he asks instead of answering her.

"It doesn't matter what I think."

"I'd still like to know."

She looks at him for a long moment, clearly making up her mind. "I think if you're going to leave, you should make sure you're doing it for the right reason."

He nods. "And what's the right reason, then?"

"I really couldn't say," she replies. "That's what you need to figure out."

"And here I was thinking it was your job to help me with that."

She smiles, nodding. "It is. But I can't do that until you admit it to yourself."

He stares at her.

She stands up. "And on that note, I think our time is up."

She is by the door, her hand reaching for the handle, before he shakes his head and follows her. "See you next week, doc."

"Absolutely," she agrees as she holds the door open for him.

_TBC_


	5. Chapter 5

Sam wakes up slowly, rolling onto his back and squeezing his eyes shut against the daylight. He smiles slightly to himself, still not sufficiently used to this feeling to not take pleasure in it.

Today marks the first full week of not being woken up by nightmares.

It has been a gradual thing, beginning with him waking up before anyone actually died in the scenario that had replayed itself over and over again in his dreams for so long that he had forgotten what sleeping without nightmares feels like. Then he was waking himself up before any shots were fired, as if his subconscious had simply decided it didn't want these images anymore, until finally he slept through the night, waking up one morning to sunlight streaming through his windows, feeling confused but refreshed.

And now that has happened seven times and he is no longer confused. Sleeping through the night is slowly becoming normal for him.

He just knows Dr. Dwyer will contribute it to what she is surely calling his 'breakthrough' of a few weeks ago, but Sam doesn't even care. All that matters is that he is finally getting a decent night's sleep. If pressed, however, he will insist that he just got bored with watching the same dream replay over and over and so he stopped. By himself.

Just like he's doing everything else by himself.

He goes to the kitchen to make coffee and turns on the radio just in time for the news. The second story is about a bank robbery on Queen Street yesterday and he finds himself wondering who is working the case, what the details are, if there are any suspects yet.

It's making him jittery and for the first time in much too long he wants to be back at work, to be doing something.

Clearly sleep was what he needed. Sleep and some distance. He can focus again now, and it feels great.

In the early afternoon he hears his phone ringing in his bedroom and only then does he realize that he left it on the bedside table last night instead of hiding it from himself as he has been doing for over a month now.

By the time he gets there the ringing has stopped and he gets a text from Sarah, saying she didn't call about anything important and she'd try again later.

He calls her back and she sounds so surprised to hear from him that he can't help but feel guilty about how he's been avoiding her calls. Everyone's calls, really.

They chat for almost ten minutes and a couple of times he catches himself laughing at the stories she's telling him. Silly stories that aren't really about anything, their only purpose is to entertain him. For the first time since he was shot, it's working.

Finally she tells him regretfully that she has to get back to work, her break is over and he knows how her manager gets if she's late.

So he tells her she should just quit if her job is making her unhappy, do something else.

She starts saying something about the recession and the job market but then she stops herself and asks, "So is that what you've done? You found another job because this one made you unhappy?"

He clears his throat and opens his mouth to tell her yes it is, but the words won't come. "Maybe," he says instead. "I'm keeping my options open."

She laughs lightly. "Always playing the field, huh, Sammy?"

He chuckles. "I think you said something about your break being over?" he retorts.

They hang up and he smiles to himself, knowing that Sarah feels better now than she did before they talked. She's been too worried about him and he hasn't been able to convince her to stop until now. But this time it finally sounded like she believed he was okay.

Maybe that's because he finally is.

So it should be easy now, just telling her that he's transferring, but he didn't. The thing is, he doesn't really want to go, he doesn't want to leave his friends at 15 and the only reason the thought ever occurred to him in any serious way was Andy.

Andy, who no longer haunts his dreams, who no longer occupies every other conscious thought he has.

Andy, who is still the first one to spring to mind when he lists his regrets.

But regretting the past is not the same thing as running from it, so why isn't he able to leave yet?

* * *

He is driving to the station and it's only when he catches himself drumming his fingers against the steering wheel to the beat of the song playing on the radio that it occurs to him that he is in a good mood. When he parks outside the barn and exits his car he smiles at two officers walking to their squad car and they smile back, nodding in greeting.

Once inside he goes to the kitchen to make himself a cup of coffee before his appointment with Dr. Dwyer. Being back in the barn is easier now. It helps that his appointments are always scheduled during a different shift so he doesn't have to see any of the people he worked with regularly. He has only just mentally thanked Frank for this small favor when he turns around to see Andy standing in the doorway, frozen.

"McNally," he says, his voice sounding strange to his own ears. This is the first time he has seen her, in real life, in almost two months and he doesn't really appreciate what it's doing to his pulse. This is not the heartbeat of a man who is ready to move on.

She smiles in greeting, the expression not reaching her eyes.

"Back in uniform," he says, indicating her outfit with a wave of his hand.

"Yes." She comes to stand next to him, getting a mug and preparing to boil water for tea. "First week back."

"Different shift, though."

She shrugs, carefully reading the label for each type of tea in the jar of teabags before settling on Earl Grey and dropping it into her mug. "Just overtime."

He feels like he's interviewing a witness who very determinedly does not want to talk. Unfortunately Andy isn't handcuffed and forced to sit across from him in an interview room. That would probably make getting her to look at him a lot easier; although, considering how stubborn she can be sometimes, it might not make a difference at all. He can be stubborn too, though, and he is determined to prove to himself that they can have a normal conversation.

"So how've you been, McNally?"

She turns her head to look at him, her face turned up in a disbelieving grimace. As if she doesn't think he has a right to know, or maybe she just doesn't understand why he would care. "Fine."

He raises his eyebrows expectantly.

Her eyes narrow and she glares at him, but he can see the corners of her lips twitching upward. "And how are you?" she asks petulantly.

"I'm fine, thank you for asking," he says, walking to the fridge and getting the cream for her.

She takes it, staring at it as if it's part of an alien spaceship.

"It goes in your tea, McNally," he explains jokingly. Clearly the cream is somehow significant to her although he doesn't really see how or why.

"Yeah. Right," she agrees, nodding and turning away from him to pour some into her mug. When she turns back around he holds out a hand to take the cream from her and put it back in the fridge, but she won't give it to him. "Are you really okay, Sam?"

He points at the cream, silently asking if she's done with it, and she hands it to him. "Yes. Doctors are very impressed with my recovery," he says, putting the cream back where he took it and turning around to face her again.

"I didn't mean that," she says in a low voice.

He looks at her questioningly.

"Oliver says you're..." She pauses, clearly worried he'll be upset that she and Oliver have talked about him.

"Oliver says what?" he asks, careful to keep his voice neutral.

She shrugs. "He says you don't talk to anyone."

"We're talking right now," he points out.

She rolls her eyes at him. "But we haven't been. It's been over a month, Sam, and you've just completely shut me out."

On any other day Sam might've pointed out the fact that she didn't exactly make it hard for him to do that, all it took was ignoring a couple of phone calls after she came to see him that night. She is right, after all, he _has_ been shutting her out, and it wouldn't have mattered how hard she had tried, he would've kept doing that, because he genuinely didn't want to be around her. He couldn't be around her.

But standing here with her in this kitchen he's beginning to wonder if maybe Dr. Dwyer is right, peaceful coexistence is an option. Up until everything blew up in his hands, it _had_ been going pretty well. Maybe it was just the reality of having Andy moving on thrown in his face like that that made him want to get as far away as he could. Maybe he _can_ get used to seeing the two of them together.

Maybe he will be okay being around her again. He can't seem to get used to the idea of walking away, after all.

"You said you didn't do it for me," he tells her, changing the subject. Bringing it back to the moment that, in his mind, spells the breaking point, because he knows she feels betrayed by the fact that he would ever ask her to do that, and it broke his heart all over again when she told him it wasn't about him. Even more so when he found out she felt comfortable talking to Collins about it.

"What was I supposed to say? You asked me to break the rules in a pretty serious way, Sam-to protect your _girlfriend_. Should I have said that I did it because I still love you?"

When she says the word 'love' his eyes flash to her and then fix themselves on the notice pinned to the board above the coffee machine, reminding everyone about the charity basketball game against 27 in two weeks. "_Is_ that why you did it?" he asks slowly, hesitantly.

"No," she says and he can feel something crumbling inside himself. "I did it because we were partners once, and you have your partner's back. Always."

He can't help but smile slightly as she repeats his own lesson back to him. Part of him is proud of the kind of cop she's turned into, even if it isn't necessarily the kind of cop _she_ wants to be.

"Even if you think what they're asking you to do is wrong," she ads emphatically.

"I know it was," he agrees. "And I'm sorry I had to ask you, but there really was no other way."

"There's always another way," she argues. "The truth is another way."

He laughs a brief humorless laugh that makes her look directly at him, challenging him to say what he's thinking. He stares back at her, not saying a word.

"You disappeared," she says finally, when she accepts that he won't tell her why he thinks telling the truth is amusing.

"I did," he agrees. He didn't actually go anywhere, but he supposes it must have looked like he disappeared from where she's standing.

"Are you back?" He wants to think that she sounds hopeful, but he honestly can't tell.

"I don't know," he says. Truthfully. He really still doesn't know.

She frowns. "So then what are you doing here?"

He shakes his head, sucking in his lips and raising his eyebrows. "I have no idea," he admits.

For some reason that makes her smile slightly and he smiles back, because what else can he do?

"Maybe I missed you?" he asks, his tone joking, his eyes serious.

"Right," she says sarcastically, not looking at him.

"What, because no one could ever miss you?" He's kidding, but also on some level worried that she actually feels that way – and that he is part of that.

"Oh, I am very missable," she informs him, suddenly smiling a teasing smile that reminds him of years ago when things were complicated, too, but still somehow so much easier.

He pulls a disbelieving face and she laughs.

"I'm actually here to see Dr. Dwyer," he tells her when her laughter is reduced to a grin.

"Really?" She is unable to conceal her surprise at that and he nods. "Wow."

"What?"

"Nothing," she says, shaking her head quickly. "Just, that's very-healthy of you."

"On the other hand, I am drinking about ten cups of coffee a day," he admits, picking up the mug he left on the counter to illustrate his point and catching a glimpse of his watch. "I need to, uh..." He points down the hall and gulps down the rest of the coffee in two large mouthfuls.

"Yeah, of course. Me too. I mean, not, I'm-I should get back to work," she rambles, spilling tea on the counter as she picks up the mug too quickly.

"See you around, McNally," he tells her, smiling as he walks away.

The smile lasts all the way down the hall and up the stairs and is answered by Dr. Dwyer when he enters her office moments later.

"You're in a good mood," she informs him, not commenting on the fact that he is also several minutes late.

"Yes, I am," he agrees.

"Dare I ask why?"

"I got my handicap down to 13 this weekend," he jokes.

"Impressive. Congratulation," she says, playing along. "Want to sit?"

He shakes his head. He's feeling too fidgety for the couch today.

"So your golfing is improving?" she asks, her voice professional, and it's clear that she's inviting him to use it as a metaphor for whatever is really going on. Breakthrough or no breakthrough, this isn't Dr. Phil.

"Yeah," he says, walking to the window and staring out at the parking lot for a moment before turning to look at her, leaning against the window sill. "I've been practicing my game at home, and I think it's really paying off on the course."

Her eyes widen marginally and he realizes what she thinks he means and a burst of laughter escapes him. "Not like that," he assures her.

She holds up a dismissive hand. "That's fine," she insists.

"I know it is, but it's not what I meant."

"So what did you mean?"

He walks to the couch, drumming his fingers on its back. "I've just had a lot of time to think about things," he says, not sure how to really explain. A handicap of 13 is very good, but it's still a handicap. "And today I managed to have an entire conversation without it turning into something-destructive," he finishes, taking a while to come up with the right word.

She nods. "That's very good," she tells him, sounding like a teacher praising a student's homework. She hesitates, taking a deep breath and smiling slightly. "And how does that make you feel?"

He shakes his head, grinning, and her smile widens in response when she sees that he doesn't take offense to her 'psycho babble.' "Good."

She nods again, clearly impressed. "Do you want to talk about what you can do to make sure you have more conversations like that one?"

"Not really," he replies.

"Is that because you already know?" She asks.

He shakes his head. "I think maybe the planets just aligned. I'm sure it happens every couple of centuries."

"So you're going to wait a couple of centuries before you have another conversation?"

He frowns, contemplating her words. Waiting a couple of months was hard enough, and that was when he didn't really _want_ to talk to McNally. He can't even imagine having to wait several years, much less centuries, life expectancy not being an issue. "No."

Dr. Dwyer nods. "So then what?"

He shakes his head. "I don't know. I guess I'll figure it out."

_TBC_


	6. Chapter 6

_So I rewrote the ending three times. And now it's not really the end at all, because there's going to be a sequel. Because I hate myself a little and feel like I should write from Andy's perspective for a while. I swear there's still a plan. That hasn't changed._

* * *

At first he almost misses the postcard, wedged in between take-out menus and bills he can't be bothered to sort out right now, but then a corner of flashy pink catches his eye and he pulls it out from the stack of paper. He smiles at the too bright colors of the photo of a beach at nighttime, the Miami skyline lit up in the background. He turns the postcard and isn't surprised to see Marlo's familiar handwriting on it.

_If you haven't managed to walk away yet, maybe you shouldn't be leaving._

It isn't signed but there's no doubt it's from her.

So, Miami, he thinks to himself. That seems like a good idea. Then he reads the card again. He isn't necessarily expecting a novella about her time in Florida, but he definitely isn't expecting this.

It's strange, somehow, how well she seems to know him, when he had the impression that they didn't really know each other at all, because they both kept such defining things about themselves secret throughout their relationship. But whereas he was absolutely clueless about her mental health issues, clearly Oliver was right that she knew his heart was somewhere else.

He turns the postcard back around, looking at the skyline for a moment before walking to his fridge and pinning the card to it with a magnet loosely depicting Niagara Falls. He opens the fridge, trying to make up his mind about dinner, but then closes it again, looking at the skyline one last time before going to get his coat and walking out the door.

* * *

He walks into the Penny for the first time in over two months, scanning the room for familiar faces.

The first person he spots is Oliver, who is sitting at the bar by himself, nursing a pint of lager. He walks over, standing behind the empty stool next to his friend and flags down a bartender. "One of those," he says, pointing at Oliver's half-empty glass. "And one more for my friend."

The bartender nods and walks away and Oliver turns to look at Sam, obviously surprised to see him. "Hey," he says after a moment.

Sam merely raises his eyebrows in greeting and pulls out the stool to sit down.

When the beers are set down in front of them, Oliver downs the one he was drinking before and then picks up the new one. "Cheers," he says, clinking his glass against Sam's when he picks it up.

"Cheers," Sam echoes, taking a sip of his drink. Part of him is expecting Oliver to say something, ask him questions about what has been going on, but he seems content to just sit there, as if Sam's mere presence answers any questions he might have.

Sam looks at him and smiles, hoping this will somehow convey his appreciation of Oliver's understanding and Oliver nods indicating that against all odds, he does get it. Sam is grateful, but at the same time he feels bad, because clearly he hasn't appreciated Oliver's friendship and the strength of their relationship enough recently.

The bartender is setting down their next round of drinks in front of them when Sam turns in his seat, looking across the room to where Andy and Nick are seated at a table, deep in conversation. "So that's still going on," he says, suddenly feeling less sure of himself than when he left the house an hour ago.

These last weeks have made it very easy to convince himself that there's no need for him to stay away, that seeing her be happy with someone else is better than not seeing her at all. But the way his heart contracts when she smiles at something Collins says makes him think maybe he was wrong about that.

"What?" Oliver asks, turning to look in the same direction. "Oh, that. No." He looks back at Sam, shaking his head. "That was over before you woke up in the hospital."

"What?" Sam almost shouts and Oliver's eyes widen in surprise. "Why wouldn't you tell me that?" He's angry that he didn't hear about this sooner, but on the other hand, he's glad he didn't know. If he had, that might've led him to make a decision he wasn't ready to make. Now he's here because he wants to be - because he wants her to be happy, but he also wants to be around. If he had thought, even for just a second, that there was room in her life for him to be the one to make her happy, he would have run too fast, either away from her or towards her.

"I don't know, Sammy," Oliver replies sarcastically. "Maybe because first you refused to talk about her, and then you disappeared, and then it kinda just looked like you weren't interested?" It sounds like a question, but actually it's more like an accusation. And it's not an unfair one.

Sam opens his mouth to apologize, or say something that might be considered an apology, but is interrupted by Collins who walks up to stand next to them, his arm raised to catch the bartender's attention. "Swarek," he says, nodding in greeting, one eye still behind the bar.

"Collins," Sam returns. He hasn't seen him since the day he woke up in the hospital, and he is surprised to see him looking almost as exhausted and worn out as he did that day. He might smile and put up a front, but Sam sees the cracks in the veneer, because they're the same cracks he has been trying to glaze over for over a year now himself. He turns his head to look at the table Nick is sharing with Andy and finds her looking up at them, frowning slightly.

When he catches her eye he holds up his beer in greeting and she holds up her empty glass and shrugs. He smiles at her and turns back around, wondering if there's a subtle way that he can be the one to bring her a beer and leave Collins with Oliver. Then he wonders if maybe subtlety doesn't matter, but before he has made up his mind Collins is dropping some bills on the counter and picking up two fulls glasses.

He nods briefly at Sam and Oliver before making his way through the crowd towards Andy.

"Well, that was friendly," Oliver says, sounding only mildly sarcastic, and Sam grins to himself, his eyes on his glass.

"You look so fucking smug right now, do you know that?" Oliver continues when Sam doesn't reply. Sam licks his teeth, trying to wipe the smirk off his face.

"I do feel bad for him," he says when he finally manages a serious face. And he does.

"Sure you do, but not _that_ much, right?" Oliver challenges him, smiling slightly himself.

"What do you mean?"

Oliver scratches his ear. "To go over there and tell her she's made a mistake dumping him."

"I already told her that," Sam says quietly, his eyes now trained even harder on the condensation forming on his glass.

"What?" Oliver sounds so appalled that Sam looks up at him.

He shrugs. "I mean, I didn't tell her she shouldn't have dumped him, I didn't know she had. I just told her-" He sighs and scratches his hair. "I told her she was better off with him."

Oliver blows out a gust of air as if someone has punched him in the gut. "You are the dumbest sucker I ever met, Sam Swarek," he marvels. "I mean, the jury's been out for a while, but I think it's official now."

Sam grins lopsidedly. "I'm aware of that, thanks."

"So, what, two months of police issue therapy and you're Oprah?"

Sam's grin turns into a laugh. "I sure as hell hope not."

Oliver nods seriously. "Yeah, me too. I don't know how I'd deal with you actually being in touch with your feelings and-" he pulls a disgusted face. "_Talking_ about them."

"Yeah, that won't happen. Not with you," Sam promises and Oliver grins.

"So you're not going to tell me you love me?"

Sam stares at him, his eyebrows up. "Uh. No."

"That's too bad, man, I really need to hear that from you."

Sam turns in his seat, looking directly at Oliver. "Oliver. Brother," he says, his face serious. "I love-" He pauses and Oliver's eyes widen in shock. "-Yodeling," he finishes, his face breaking into a grin at the look on Oliver's face.

"You're an ass, Swarek," Oliver says, trying not to smile. "I bet you can't even yodel."

Sam shrugs. "I've had a lot of time on my hands lately. Who's to say I didn't learn."

Oliver nods, thoughtful. "Okay then, let's hear it."

Sam takes a deep breath, filling his lungs with air, and opens his mouth. He is expecting Oliver to look either worried or impressed, but his friend just sits there, looking at him expectantly. Sam closes his mouth, his shoulder sagging as he blows the air he was holding out through his nose. He shakes his head and Oliver grins vindictively.

Sam turns back around, focused on his pint and Oliver does the same. For a while they sit in comfortable silence, slowly drinking their beer, but then Sam can see Oliver out of the corner of his eye turning to look across the room and then settle on Sam.

"You do realize this doesn't necessarily mean she's going to want you back, right? I mean, maybe she's joined Gail and the forensic chick's ladies only club," he suggests.

Sam's eyebrows shoot up and he looks at Oliver, amusement dancing in his eyes. "You should probably keep thoughts like that to yourself, man," he suggests.

Oliver looks like he's seriously considering pouring his beer in Sam's lap but then he grins back and shakes his head. "Whatever."

"But I do know that," Sam says after a while and Oliver looks at him. "I'm not expecting her to. I just don't want to run away from it anymore." He turns his head to look at Andy. She has crossed her arms and is listening to whatever Collins is telling her without enthusiasm. Never mind the fact that when he left the house tonight he wasn't even aware that there was an 'it'. "Whatever's going to happen, it's up to her."

Oliver follows his gaze and they both see Andy shaking her head in response to something Nick is saying and then getting out of her seat. "You might want to tell her that, then," he suggests.

When Andy puts on her jacket her eyes meet Sam's briefly, but she turns to say goodbye to Peck and Diaz by the dart board before he can properly read their expression. Sam quickly downs the rest of his beer. "I think I will," he says.

His friend looks at him and then at Andy who is pushing open the door to get outside. He smiles and nods. "Goodnight, buddy. See you around."

"You will," Sam agrees, clapping him on the back and hurrying in the same direction as Andy. He's not sure if he should be making promises like that. After all, there are a lot of ways the next few minutes can go that would make him want to leave Toronto permanently, in spite of what he just told Oliver.

"McNally," he calls after her when he sees her. She is already walking down the street but she stops and turns, waiting for him to catch up.

"Hey," he says when he stops in front of her.

"Hey, yourself," she replies. She looks a little wary and he doesn't really blame her. Their last conversations have not all gone well. "How are you?"

"I'm good," he says, nodding.

"Good," she says, smiling a little.

"Yes, it is," he agrees, well aware of how stupid that sounds but unable to come up with anything better. He has spent hours and hours thinking through their relationship, what went wrong and what he could have done differently, but all his analysis has ended with "It doesn't matter, she's with someone else, someone better." Only now it turns out that she isn't, and suddenly the one great obstacle he has put between the two of them is gone and he has no idea how to deal with that. No idea how much hope he should let himself get from that – and even now, if it's really fair to hope for anything. On either of them.

She nods and then when he doesn't say anything else she turns to look at the road in the direction of her apartment, clearly ready to leave.

"Want me to walk you home?" he offers.

She looks at him, surprised.

"If you have any books, I could carry them," he goes on, turning to walk in the direction of her apartment without waiting for her answer.

She falls into step next to him. "Sorry, no. I left them all in my locker."

He smiles at her willingness to play along with his joke but doesn't say anything else and for a couple of minutes they just walk in companionable silence. Almost against his will he finds his body moving closer to hers until their arms are less than an inch apart. All he has to do to touch her hand is stretch his fingers. They have not been this close since the hospital, which seems like a different lifetime to him right now.

"So, how's work?" he asks her at last.

She shrugs, her jacket sleeve brushing against his. "It's fine," she says. "Different, I guess."

"How do you mean?"

She slows down a little and turns her head to look at him. "You aren't there," she says simply.

He stops walking. She takes two more steps before realizing and then she turns around, facing him. "I'm here now," he tells her when they are face to face.

"Are you staying?" she asks, studying his face as if she's expecting to find the answer there rather than in the words he's going to say.

"In this spot?" He asks, looking around him. They're blocking the entrance to a Chinese restaurant. "No, that would be be difficult."

She looks through the window of the door to the restaurant at the tables that have already been set for tomorrow's service.

He takes a deep breath. This is the part he is supposed to be better at now. "But, yeah, I think I am," he says.

She turns to look him in the eye and he doesn't look away. "You're not sure?"

He shrugs. "I guess it depends-" he trails off.

Her eyebrows shoot up. "On?"

He looks over her head at a scrawny teenager trying to walk in a straight line on the sidewalk and failing miserably, feeling glad that neither of them is on duty right now. The kid doesn't look drunk enough to worry about, but still, if she had been in uniform she probably would've had to bring him in, let him sleep it off in holding. When he meets her eye again he's surprised by how nervous she looks. He hadn't thought he could still make her feel that way; he doesn't feel like he _should_ be able to, but he's secretly pleased nonetheless. "On you."

"What do you mean?" she asks, her eyes never leaving his, determined to pick up every signal he's sending.

He shakes his head slightly. "You might not want me to stay."

"I never wanted you to leave in the first place, Sam."

"I know," he agrees. And he does. She might not have been persistent, but she was still pretty clear. "But I did, and I'm sorry that I had to. And I know that might change things-"

"Because it did for you, when I went undercover, you mean?" she interrupts him.

"No. Nothing changed back then, I just thought I could _make_ it. I couldn't."

"But you wanted to?" she presses him.

He grimaces. He really doesn't want to talk about this, but he knows he'll have to answer her questions, she deserves that much, and there's no way they'll be able to work together if he doesn't. He doesn't let himself think about what else they won't be able to do, because this feels too close to having an actual shot at 'more' and it would hurt too much if he let himself believe that and then failed. "You left. I told you how I felt and then you walked away."

"You said you'd give me time," she reminds him, her voice barely above a whisper. Technically he hadn't but he supposes it was implied in what he did say.

He takes a small step closer to her. "I didn't think you wanted time. I didn't think you wanted me."

"I never stopped wanting you," she tells him sadly.

He feels something unclench in his gut at her words. "I'm sorry I didn't wait," he says, his eyes boring into hers as he tries desperately to make her understand just how much he means it. He can't escape the thought that if he had just been single when she came back, he could have been happy for the last year, instead of having every little thing be a struggle.

He knows that's probably not true, odds are he would have somehow messed things up anyway, but the idea is in his head and there's no way he can convince himself that it wouldn't have been better. Better than the last two months, at least.

She nods. "I'm sorry I left, too."

He smiles, reaching out a hand to touch her cheek. Her skin is cold from the chilly spring night, but his fingers still burn as they brush against her skin. She leans into his touch, closing her eyes, and he smiles to himself.

He doesn't understand how he could ever have walked away from feeling like he does right now.

She licks her lips and he feels himself being drawn in, his lips pulled towards hers as if they were magnets, but when they are just two inches apart he stops himself. He has to actually tell his body twice not to lean in any further, because every instinct in him is telling him to kiss her, but still, somewhere in his head there's a voice telling him it's not the right thing to do. He hates that voice, he has for years, but its tone is different now. It's not holding him back out of fear. It just wants him to do the right thing, for both of them.

Clearly she senses his hesitation, because she opens her eyes to look at him, pulling back slightly when his face is too close to focus on it. He can see the fear he doesn't feel himself reflected in her eyes and he smiles soothingly. Then she is shaking her head and he lets his hand drop to his side.

"I can't do this, Sam," she says, her voice barely above a whisper.

"What do you mean?" he asks, his voice neutral, his heart trying to pound its way out of his chest.

"This," she repeats, indicating the space between them with a wave of her hand. "I can't do this."

He nods, smiling slightly in spite of himself. That certainly cleared things right up. "Okay," he agrees slowly.

"I'm sorry, but I _just_ got used to you not being there," she tells him.

He looks at her, waiting for her to continue.***

"How do I know you're not just going to disappear again?"

He's beginning to suspect that the leaving thing is going to come up a lot, and maybe it hurt her more than he thought it did. But he's still tempted to point out that leaving is her thing, he's too much of a glutton for punishment to walk away.

"I really just want to go home," she tells him, her voice low, her eyes on the collar of his jacket.

He takes a step back, putting more distance between them, and waves a hand to indicate that she should start walking. She looks at him, a flash of disappointment in her eyes, but then she turns and starts walking. He gives himself two seconds to recover from what just happened before he catches up with her. When he reaches her and wordlessly falls into step next to her she turns her head to look at him and the hint of relief on her face when she sees him makes him realize that she assumed he would let her walk the rest of the way alone.

"Thank you," she says.

"For...?"

"For not pushing."

He's trying to remember ever pushing her, in fact he has thought for a long time that he didn't push enough, but right now it doesn't matter. It doesn't even matter that he can still feel a tingling in his fingers from touching her.

He came out tonight because he wanted to know that they could work together, maybe even be friends again at some point in the future, and getting a glimpse of more than that isn't going to make him retreat now.

He has had a lot of time to try to get used to the idea of leaving, so if she needs time to get used to the idea of him staying, then he'll give her that. It's not as if he has a choice, really, with the way his heart starts pounding when she turns her head to smile at him, her shoulder bumping gently against his arm as they walk.

_End_

_More coming up in _Left to Drown_, the Andy-centric sequel. _

_Also, I just want to say thank you to everyone who followed this story. I genuinely can't believe how many people cared what happened here. You guys are kind of amazing._


End file.
